


table for two

by LonesomeDreamer



Series: the adventures of an evil eye bastard and his lonely sea captain husband [11]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Dirty Thoughts, Implied Nudity, Implied Sexual Content, LonelyEyes, M/M, as is maggie, bubble baths, but i felt they ought to be tagged, elias is only mentioned in this, every time they eat seafood peter insists that he personally knew whatever animal is on their plates, hahahaha this one is fun, mordechai lukas is also mentioned in this, romantic dinner date
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:41:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23190093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LonesomeDreamer/pseuds/LonesomeDreamer
Summary: peter returns home from the sea to find that jonah's planned a lovely evening for them both.
Relationships: Mordechai Lukas/Jonah Magnus (implied), Peter Lukas/Jonah Magnus
Series: the adventures of an evil eye bastard and his lonely sea captain husband [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1664716
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	table for two

**Author's Note:**

> This ended up far more romantic than I had ever intended it to. I think it's lovely.

Jonah stood in front of the mirror, tie over his shoulders but not yet tied. With careful motions, he propped up the collar of his broadcloth button-down shirt; shaking hands led the tie up, down, over, through, around, until the knot was tight around his throat and the tie hung impeccably. Fine jeweler's chain rattled as he lifted his pocketwatch from the top of his dressing table, opening the golden case to examine the time.

_Ah, excellent. I still have half an hour to spare, provided Peter doesn’t show up early—but I should know if he does._

The Eye remained silent in the back of his mind as he picked up his vest, examining his silhouette in the mirror as he put it on. When he had first taken the body of Elias Bouchard, he had been wildly insecure about his new form; thin and angular was more his style, but Bouchard had been a bit soft about the hips. He’d moped about it until Peter had taken the time to comfort and cuddle him.

From that point onward, he’d tried to be less neurotic about his own appearance. He still dressed himself to the tens, of course, and he was still—if he was being honest—incredibly narcissistic, but it had become a slightly healthier control. Slightly. Very slightly.

As it was, coming back into his own body—or a reincarnation of his own body, which was something he regretfully owed to Queen Magnolia after she’d pulled him from the body of Elias Bouchard—had been a bit of a positive for him. Peter’s insistence had led him to relaxing his control a bit; he’d ended up, by this point, with the beginnings of a paunch. It was strange to him, letting himself be soft, but his husband adored it and thus he tried to understand the attractiveness in it.

_If only my hips weren’t so...feminine._

Some of the weight, instead of adding to his belly, had adhered itself to his thighs and hips. He awkwardly squirmed a little just thinking about the ways Peter had complimented and stroked him, recalling in addition that Peter had made some comment about how squeezable his ass had become.

_Oh, goodness._

The vest was soon on and buttoned; next came the jacket, which was sleek and immaculate and a deep shade of navy blue. It was hard to deny that Jonah looked quite debonair, what with his messy brunet curls that liked to hang down in front of his eyes and the cutting angles of his cheekbones; the suit only made his already suave figure more handsome, drawing everything into smooth straight lines. His slight paunch was hardly even visible, only noticeable were one to put an arm around his waist—and only Peter ever did that, which meant he was perfectly safe from any potential embarrassment he might have been concerned about.

Another quick check of the time. Jonah tucked his watch into his inner pocket, fastening the chain through his buttonhole and sighing contentedly as he picked up a comb and ran it through his hair. More messy curls fell in front of his eyes, these ones tinged with gray; with an annoyed huff, he combed them back.

“Age. How horrific,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Peter looks dignified with gray, no matter how prematurely he got it, but I do not.”

_I cannot fathom how someone younger than me has already figured out the secrets to devilish handsomeness!_

He picked up his walking cane and began his way downstairs at a brisk walking pace, ever so often running a hand through his hair and tousling his curls. By the time he had arrived at the main doors, he was slightly out of breath; it took him several seconds to regain a normal breathing pattern, and his cheeks remained quite flushed.

_Peter’s here._

Jonah almost instantly perked up as the Beholding poked into his mind, informing him that his husband was standing at the end of the drive. He immediately began fussing with the lock on the estate doors before opening them and stepping out onto the porch.

By the end of the drive, which was laid with brick pavers and framed by handsomely manicured trees, Peter Lukas was making his way towards the Magnus Estate. He wore his long captain’s coat, the deep navy almost melting off his frame and into the fog that swirled around him; in one hand was his sailor’s cap, while the other hand was tucked behind his back in typical Peter fashion. His hair had been pulled back into a small ponytail—it always became absurdly long when he went off at sea—and his beard seemed only a little bit scruffier than it had when he’d last left.

Unwilling to let the Eye ruin the moment, Jonah stood there and gazed at Peter until the man had made it all the way up to the house. He was quite surprised when Lukas pulled a bouquet of flowers from behind his back.

“I’m flattered,” he murmured, a small smile crossing his lips as he reached out for the roses.

“Ah, ah, I believe the proper response is ‘I’ve missed you’,” Peter tutted, lifting the flowers into the air and out of Jonah’s reach. “Come on, now. Surely saying _that_ isn’t below the great and mighty Jonah Magnus, is it?”

“Let me kiss you,” Jonah whined, ignoring the flowers for favor of the man in front of him. He pulled Peter down by the collar, pressing their lips together; the primal hunger he felt was visible in his eyes.

“You’ve Fed,” he murmured, trailing his fingers down Peter’s cheek. “You cheeky bastard. It looks good on you, you were getting far too hungry...”

He ran his hands down Peter’s neck, slipping them beneath the man’s sea captain’s coat in order to stroke his shoulders. The captain blushed faintly before gently pushing Jonah back.

“Easy,” he huffed, presenting the man with the flowers in order to distract him. “Yes, I Fed. Seems you have as well. Dashing as always, Jonah.”

“Why thank you,” Magnus murmured, accepting the roses and nearly burying his face in them. “Do come in, Peter. I’ve spent quite a while preparing for your arrival.”

Without another word, he turned on his heel and headed in; he had one hand on his walking cane while the other held tightly to the flowers, which he still had his face buried in. Peter followed behind him in an almost obedient fashion, noting with no small amount of pride that Jonah seemed to be enthralled by the roses.

They entered one of the main dining rooms, a space resplendent with elaborate decor and fine furniture. The main table of the room, a long wooden masterpiece that the sea captain was certain had come from the early 1700s, was not set; over by the window, a smaller table was set for two.

“Just us,” Magnus said quietly, placing the flowers in a vase before striding over and taking a seat.

Lukas took his time sitting down opposite of the man, still staring out the window. Fog had started to drift in and cloak the grounds below, a beautiful illusion. He felt a distinct sense of homey warmth curl around his heart.

“Well. It’s been some time since you were home,” Jonah mumbled awkwardly. “You’ve—”

“We don’t need to waste time with smalltalk, Jonah,” Peter said softly, gazing at the fog before turning to look at his husband. “It’s no fun for either of us. How have you been?”

Jonah’s cheeks flushed a pale shade of pink, the man in question quite pleased to be inquired after. “Oh, I’ve been...fine, in every sense of the word. I’ve missed you something terrible,” he pouted, giving Peter puppy-dog eyes.

“That won’t work on me,” Lukas replied lightly, as soup was set before them. “If you want to beg for attention—”

“I don’t beg,” Jonah interjected annoyedly.

“—then beg.”

The room went very quiet at this; the gentlemen stared at each other with expressions of shock and smugness between the two of them. Jonah’s face had turned a darker shade of red as the older Brit shifted awkwardly in his seat, clearing his throat and running a finger along the inside of his collar before lapsing back into silence.

“...the soup is good,” Peter hummed, finishing up the contents of his bowl. “You did that for me, didn’t you?”

“Maybe,” Jonah coughed. “Maybe I know just how much you like soup, Peter.”

The first part of the main course was shepherd’s pie, a tasty little affair that the older Brit was clearly quite invested in. Peter stared at Jonah while the man ate, watching as he swallowed and savored each bite. Occasionally, the captain would take a bite of his own food.

“...I’m surprised to see you eating so well,” he said, in a tone that said he wasn’t at all surprised. “Found enough fear to feed your god, have you?”

“I’ve...put on a few kilograms,” Jonah mumbled embarrassedly, whole face mildly resembling a tomato. “The Eye has been quite happy with me. It is only fair that I serve it with the most strength I can—”

“I knew this fish,” Peter remarked, cutting off his husband. Before the two of them sat two more plates, each one with a remarkably nice cut of fish upon it.

Jonah spluttered for several moments before collecting himself. “Don’t be daft, Peter. Those jokes aren’t funny!”

“No, no, I actually knew this one,” the captain shook his head, expression deadpan. “Met somewhere in the North Atlantic, while—”

“Do shut up,” Magnus grumbled. “I know you’re leading me on.”

Peter rocked back in his chair, hands behind his head, obligingly closing his mouth for a moment. He hadn’t intended to go on, but getting a rise out of Jonah had been a sweet reward for his teasing efforts.

“So, you’re just going to eat poor Trafford here?” he snorted. “What did the fish ever do to y—”

“For God’s sake, Peter, drop it!” Jonah snarled angrily, slamming one hand down on the table. “Can we not eat in peace? And don’t name the food!”

Peter’s eyes had widened ever-so-slightly in response to this outburst; the captain leaned forward, reaching for his husband’s hand and holding it gently.

“I was just kidding, Jonah,” he said quietly, able to feel the trembling fury coursing through the other man. “You know that.”

Jonah took a deep breath, giving Peter’s hand a vice-like squeeze as he struggled to calm himself down. It took several of these deep breaths to ease the homicidal rage from his veins; eventually, though, he had effectively relaxed again.

“An overreaction,” he muttered tersely, running a hand through his curls and further obscuring his eyes. “My—my apologies, Peter.”

“Don’t apologize,” Lukas replied smoothly, shaking his head. “Let’s finish the fish.”

The rest of dinner was a rather quiet affair, silence punctuated only by the clatter of silverware against china and the occasional cross-contact of crystal glasses. By the time the plates were cleared, both men were quite sated; as it was, however, neither wanted to break the quiet to get up.

“...there’s still dessert, I presume?” Peter asked quietly, dragging his syllables along as he drawled out the question. “Knowing you?”

“Oh, sod off,” Jonah grumbled, but he couldn’t hide the twinkle in his eye and the tiny little smirk that had appeared on his face. “Yes. Lemon pound cake with—”

“—icing, strawberries, and ice cream if we’re lucky?” the captain rattled off, finishing his husband’s sentence and laughing. “You haven’t changed one jot, have you?”

Jonah’s cheeks were as red as the strawberries served with dessert—which he immediately devoted his attention to, both to hide his embarrassment from the man across the table and to enjoy the sweet treat. Peter watched him delightedly, slowly consuming his own dessert before offering Jonah a bite from his fork.

“Still hungry?” he chuckled, prompting further blushing from the older Brit. “Go on, take the fork!”

Instead of taking the fork with his hand, however, Jonah simply leaned forward and ate the bite straight off of the utensil. This provoked roaring laughter from Peter, who nearly dropped the silverware in his humor-stricken state.

“Don’t laugh at me! You offered it!” Magnus cried shrilly, blushing even more. “Peter! Stop it!”

“I do so love seeing you flustered,” the captain laughed softly, before resuming the consumption of his dessert. He didn’t say much else as he ate; he was markedly conscious of Jonah’s critical gaze, which never once flickered away from him. Once he had finished, he set down his fork to find that Jonah had drained a glass of champagne and was gazing at him expectantly.

“Very well, then. Time to wind down our evening?” the older Brit suggested with a mild air of haughtiness, gazing down his nose at the captain.

Peter responded with a short nod, rising to his feet and offering a hand to Jonah. The slightly shorter man got up as well, taking his husband’s hand and gripping the head of his walking cane in his other hand.

“I do believe I let myself indulge a small amount too much,” Jonah murmured, blinking owlishly for a moment before leaning against Peter and practically nuzzling his head into the man’s shoulder. “I put so much work into tonight, though. It would be positively ill-mannered of me to neglect all that I’d planned for…”

Peter was barely listening to Jonah’s words, instead focusing on the gentle contact between the two of them; although he was typically less-than-thrilled about such close interaction, things were different when it came to Jonah. He felt rather warm inside, proud and happy that his husband was being so cuddly and doting.

“Peter? Peter, kindly refrain from dragging me up the stairs.”

It took the captain a moment to realize that he’d nearly pulled Jonah up the first few stairs. He quickly let go, mumbled apologies falling from his lips as the older Brit dusted himself off and began to climb the stairs. Each step Magnus took, however, was accompanied with a wince and a little huff of a pair of tired lungs. This did not go unnoticed by Peter; he quickly picked Jonah up, cradling the man in his arms, and proceeded upstairs.

“I’m afraid I’m _dreadfully_ tired,” Jonah sighed dramatically, letting his eyes close. “No energy left at all.”

He was set down rather gracefully in the midst of a pile of pillows, walking cane deftly plucked away by Peter and set somewhere to the side. With another dramatic sigh, Jonah managed to sit up and attempted to reach forward to take off his shoes.

“Easy,” Peter muttered warningly, leaning over and swiftly unbuttoning both Jonah’s jacket and vest. The shorter man groaned, almost immediately letting out a sigh of relief.

“Oh, I really did, didn’t I?” he muttered bitterly, unlacing his shoes and letting them drop to the floor.

“Nonsense,” Lukas shook his head, the word tumbling around somewhere in the back of his throat and eventually leaving his lips with a gorgeously deep tone. “Still handsome as always, my dear.”

He pushed Jonah back against the pillows, bringing their lips together in what began as a chaste kiss and ended as a passionate battle for dominance. In the end, the captain won out; Jonah had no sooner given in than he began to loosen his tie in giddy anticipation.

“Someone’s excited,” Peter murmured, laughing softly as he trailed alternating kisses and nips down his husband’s jawline.

Jonah let out the tiniest of moans, squirming slightly. He gazed up at Peter with brilliant blue eyes that, for once, revealed nothing but deep longing and desire.

“You’ve left me deprived, my dear. Do be sensible.”

~XXXXX~

The aftermath was rather quiet. Peter had gotten up to steal the shower first, leaving his husband curled up in bed in the middle of a state of euphoria—Jonah was clutching at one of the various pillows present, hugging it to his chest and sighing happily. His thoughts drifted to Peter tracing shapes across his slick-with-sweat skin, calloused palms against soft flesh, and he shuddered slightly in delight.

“He’s been away too long…”

Peter, meanwhile, had let his hair fall out of the small ponytail it had been in. The cold shower water had plastered it to the back of his neck; he picked up a towel and quickly dried his hair off. By the time he returned to the bedroom, with a rather obscenely fluffy robe wrapped around him, Jonah had only just managed to begin getting out of bed and heading off to shower.

Some poor maid had come in to clean up the room—and the sheets—, but the captain hardly noticed. He picked up a book that had been sitting on Jonah’s bedside table and idly thumbed through it before flipping to the front and beginning to scan the first page; as he did so, he seated himself on the edge of the bed.

“Didn’t peg you for a literary man, Peter,” Jonah laughed softly, stepping into the room in a lavish silk dressing gown. “Or am I mistaken?”

Peter almost immediately set the book down, an odd expression flitting over his face before it disappeared. The temperature in the room dropped several degrees; Jonah suddenly had the foreboding sensation that he didn’t really know his husband as well as he thought he did.

“...very well,” he muttered, running a hand through his curls and settling himself on the bed next to Peter. “It wasn’t a condemnation. Don’t be so upset. You’re just…”

He sighed. “Well, you’re not much like Mordechai was.”

The moment the words fell from Jonah’s lips, Peter stiffened and clenched his fists.

“So you’re saying I’m not as good as he was?” he growled, unable to fight the anger rising in his chest. “I can’t compare to your _darling_ Mordechai?”

Hearing the name had brought memories spinning back into his head, images from a childhood he’d long tried to forget. A certain painting presented itself within his mind, tied to the name, and Peter felt a sinking feeling in his heart as he pondered the image.

“...I have his eyes, don’t I?”

It was a question, but there was barely any actual questioning behind it. His voice had gone that sort of deadly quiet that implies imminent danger to the listener.

“I have his eyes, don’t I? I look like him. Answer me. Answer me, Jonah!”

Although there was no Compelling behind the question, Magnus immediately felt as though to delay his response would result in disaster. He stammered for a moment, struggling to get his thoughts in order, before opening his mouth.

“Well,” he began timidly, “you _do_ bear a striking resemblance to him, b—”

“So the only reason you love me, then, is because I look like him. Because you miss him,” Peter cut him off coldly, ice-blue eyes hard and empty of any feeling. “I’m nothing to you.”

“That’s not true!” Jonah protested weakly, fumbling for something to say that would return the situation to rights. “Peter, you’re being—”

“Don’t you DARE tell me that what I’m feeling is stupid or childish or—or not right!” Peter cried, barely even aware that he felt truly angry as he began to pace the room. “I’ve done _so much_ for you, Jonah, and I couldn't even tell you how much more I’d do! I have barely anything left, except for you. My family hates me, and I’m a rotten avatar of the Lonely, and I’ve lied to myself for years and years and years that I’m who I’m supposed to be and I can’t anymore, Jonah, I can’t. I’ve failed in serving the Lonely, I’ve failed in being a good Lukas, and now you tell me that I’m not as good as my however-many-times-great grandfather! If something ever happened to you, I’d probably drink myself into the grave over it—and yet I’ve never been enough, not even for you. Especially not for you. I don’t know why I ever thought that the _almighty_ Jonah Magnus himself would ever give _two shits_ about me!”

Jonah’s stomach had tied itself up in knots as Peter rambled, each word further tightening the tangled loop and driving his heart into his throat.

“Peter, stop, please,” he whispered, eyes filling with tears. “Peter, you’re—you’re crying.”

The captain immediately hid his face with his hands, but it wasn’t quick enough to hide the rivers of tears that were pouring down his cheeks. The Lonely was screeching at him, demanding he return to shutting away his feelings and stop the defiant outward show of emotion; he sniffled pathetically, wiping at his face with such ferocity that the older Brit feared he would hurt himself.

“That won’t do at all,” he said softly, rising to his feet and intercepting his husband on the man’s path of pacing. “Let me help you.”

With one shaking hand, Jonah pulled a handkerchief from a pocket in his dressing gown and wiped the tears from Peter’s face. The captain shied away, but Jonah wouldn’t let him wrench free; he kept one arm firmly around Peter’s shoulders while gently mopping up the tears.

“I never said you were anything less than Mordechai, Peter,” he said quietly, guiding Peter over to the bed and helping him sit down. “You might have similar features to him, but that’s to be expected—it would be a strange world indeed for a man’s descendants to not bear some similarities to him. But I digress, my dear.”

“Don’t call me that if you don’t mean it,” Peter managed to eke out bitterly, in what would have been a hiss had he not been crying but what ended up a sad little sigh.

Jonah shook his head, pulling Peter closer to him.

“I do mean it, Peter,” he insisted, tone abnormally gentle and soft. “You mean more to me than any other person ever has before, and I doubt anyone could ever fill your shoes. You’re...you’re indescribable. My words fail me, Peter, when I try to explain how wonderful you make me feel.”

Lukas shifted slightly, turning and burying his face in Jonah’s shoulder. Limp gray locks hid the sides of his face; delicate pale fingers brushed back the hair before lifting Peter’s face up.

“I love you, Peter Lukas, more than anything,” Jonah said quietly. “And that will never change, no matter how angry or obstinate we may become with each other on a day-to-day basis.”

“...but you don’t love _me_ , Jonah, you love what you see,” Peter shook his head, glancing away and biting at his lip so hard it drew blood. “I want you to know me, and love me for—not for who I’m supposed to be, but for myself.”

Jonah tilted his head to the side in mild confusion, blinking at Peter. “You want me to—”

“Not with the Eye,” the captain shook his head, gray hair shimmying back and forth. “I don’t want you to Know me. I want you to _know_ me.”

“...Peter, your family never deserved you,” Jonah whispered, pressing his lips against Peter’s and gently caressing the man’s face. Peter made a little sound somewhere between surprise and approval, closing his eyes; the older Brit took advantage of this and pushed him back against the pillows.

“I want to know you, Peter Lukas,” Magnus murmured, still bestowing gentle kisses. “If you give me permission…”

The room fell silent for several moments but for the breathing of two sets of lungs and two hearts furiously pumping blood. When Peter finally spoke, his voice cut through the almost-silent noises despite its own quiet qualities.

“I want you to know me, Jonah Magnus. I want you to know me.”

Jonah managed a small smile, brushing hair out of Peter’s eyes with one hand and planting a kiss to the captain’s forehead. The robe was already half-off; he let his fingers trail down Peter’s torso, caressing his husband’s body and marveling at the muscles he could feel beneath the slight pudge of Peter’s dad bod.

“With pleasure, my love,” he murmured. “With pleasure.”

~XXXXX~

This time, the two did not separate with haste. Jonah, already lethargic from dinner and the first roll-around-the-blankets of the night, contented himself with remaining cuddled atop Peter; Peter, in the meantime, was taking pleasure in the sheer act of being so close to Jonah—and ignoring the Lonely, which was still angry at him.

“You’re positively marvelous, you know that?” he murmured, running one calloused palm through Jonah’s messy curls.

“I should be telling you that,” Jonah replied sleepily, a soft smile on his lips. “Mmm...my hair is positively horrendous, my dear. Gray does not work on me...lovely on you, though...handsome devil…”

The laugh that left Peter’s throat was rich and genuine, such a strange sound that Jonah actually lifted up his head to gaze at the captain with drowsy blue eyes.

“Darling?...”

“You don’t look bad at all, Jonah,” Peter hummed, letting his eyes close as the corners of his lips curled upwards. “Your mind might tell you that, but I say otherwise—and you should trust me, as someone who went gray before I had the chance to appreciate being...not-gray.”

The older Brit laughed quietly, before slowly rolling onto the bed and exhaling. “We’d better bathe again, I suppose…”

With a bit of an effort, he managed to get himself up; he headed off to the master bath, leaving Peter gazing at his retreating form rather fondly. The captain settled himself more securely in the bed, surrounding himself with a veritable nest of Jonah’s finest pillows, and proceeded to wait.

For twenty minutes.

Eventually, he dragged himself out from beneath the covers and went in search of his husband; he was more than slightly irritated at having to leave the warmth of Jonah’s expensive sheets.

“Jonah? Where on earth did y—oh my god.”

He stopped short in the doorway. Candles were lit and set all over the floor and counters; the whole room smelled like perfumed bath salts and rose petals. The bath, which was quite large, was filled to the brim with bubbles.

Jonah was reclining in the middle of this bubbly extravaganza, eyes closed and graying brown curls dipping into the foam. He appeared totally relaxed; he was in a state of calm that Peter hadn’t seen before. The captain let his gaze linger on his husband, following the genteel curve of Jonah’s nose and the just-visible line of the man’s cheekbones.

“Your face has filled out,” he laughed softly, a small smile on his lips. Jonah, entirely startled by this, slipped into the bath water several inches and resurfaced coughing up bubbles.

“Don’t sneak up on me like that!” he cried, feigning vexation. “Here I was, thinking I’d relax—”

“Without me?” Peter cut him off, smirking. He let his own robe fall before slipping into the bath next to Jonah, whose face had turned bright red.

“Oh, well, that is—I—you’re more than welcome to join me,” the older Brit managed, swallowing hard as he felt Peter’s hand settle on his knee beneath the bubble-covered surface.

Peter’s gaze settled on Jonah, a small smile crossing his lips as he leaned in and gave his husband a gentle kiss. He could practically feel the other man tremble beneath his touch.

“Good.”

~XXXXX~

By the time they got out of the bath, both men were quite close to exhausted. Peter had one hand in Jonah’s damp curls; he was idly toying with the graying locks, humming a quiet sea shanty under his breath. They had wasted a decent half hour ‘helping’ each other put on pajamas.

“Seeing you wrapped in a towel has been a highlight of my day,” he remarked, gazing at his husband as the man poured two glasses of champagne and strawberries.

“Yes, well, I appreciated the towel not fitting you,” Jonah replied, smirking as he handed off one of the glasses and had a sip from his own. “It was a lovely show, my dear.”

“Says the man who let his own towel drop and insisted he had to bend over to pick it up himself,” Peter snorted, draining his entire glass before slipping into the—clean—bed. “It’s late, Jonah. We should sleep.”

“Mmm...I shall enjoy waking up next to you tomorrow morning,” Jonah hummed, cozying up next to his husband beneath the covers. “Goodnight, my dearest Peter.”

Peter gave the older Brit a kiss, wrapping his arms around Jonah and pulling him close to his chest. The shorter man curled up into a little ball and sighed happily.

“Well. Sweet dreams, then.”

Jonah laughed quietly, face pressed somewhere against Peter’s chest. “I don’t need sweet dreams, dear. I have you.”

Peter’s heart swelled with a happiness he’d never before felt. It was warm and comforting and achingly familiar, something he never wanted to let go of.

“...and I you,” he replied softly, letting his eyes close. “Goodnight, Jonah. Goodnight.”


End file.
